by Sharon Rowse
“Well, someone will.”
“But that person can’t be Miss Frances.”
“Give me one fact that says she can’t have done it.”
“Well, you heard the bartender. She was here when the coroner says Mr. Jackson was killed.”
“She was onstage for her acts. How do we know she didn’t leave after the first show, throw on a cloak, meet and kill Jackson, then get back here in time for the second show? What proof do we have that didn’t happen?” He didn’t remind Trent that Wong Ah Sun had said Jackson was shot by a dark-haired woman. That wasn’t a fact, either, but it made him very interested in any holes in Frances’s alibi.
Trent looked shocked. “I guess she could have,” he said slowly. “But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Not Miss Frances.”
Granville looked at him and didn’t say anything.
Trent dropped his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Right,” he said after a long moment. “I see what you mean about facts. So what do we do now?”
“We stop standing in the rain and we go to talk to Benton.”
S I X T E E N
Sitting quietly in the back parlor, her forgotten embroidery hoop in her lap, Emily kept thinking about the deep voice saying he’d smelled the scent of musk. Musk was such a particular and unusual scent and none of the ladies she knew wore it. She didn’t quite believe she’d been talking to a spirit, yet hoax or not, she’d been given some very detailed information. Whether or not it was genuine, it could mean something. At least she should tell Mr. Granville what she’d heard.
The problem, of course, was how was she to do so? She had no idea if he had an office, and it was unlikely that she’d just run into him again as she’d done that afternoon. She tugged on one earlobe as she thought.
“Emily,” her mother suddenly snapped at her. “How many times have I told you not to pull on your ear? It is most unmannerly, and will probably end up disfiguring you for life. It’s quite enough that I have to hear that you were out walking without your maid. Again! I have nearly given up expecting you to behave like a well-raised young lady. But I do not expect to have to watch you pluck at parts of your body.”
“Yes, Mama,” Emily murmured. If she looked abashed enough, sometimes Mama would let it go.
“And don’t try to fool me with that meek look. You have never been meek a day in your life, and I don’t expect you to start now. Sit up straight, girl. Show some of that backbone you have so much of.”
Emily raised her head to meet her mother’s glare. The twinkle she saw instead caught her by surprise.
“You are who you are, Emily, and don’t ever try to pretend otherwise. But there are certain rules you must follow if you are to survive in society. To tell you the truth, I don’t much like Mrs. Smithers myself, but no matter how annoying she is, please do try not to be rude to her.”
Emily could feel herself flushing. Mama had not yet heard about her behavior in the tea shop. “I’m never deliberately rude, Mama.”
“No, I know, child. But the appearance of rudeness is equally bad. You can do better.”
Her sisters, who’d been silently embroidering during their mother’s lecture, resumed their discussion of what they’d wear to the New Year’s Ball and Emily went back to thinking about musk perfume, which interested her far more. She didn’t think she’d ever met anyone who wore musk; rose, yes, and lily, lavender, and violet, even orange blossom, but not musk.
“Have you ever known anyone who wore musk perfume?” she asked.
Her sisters stopped their chatter and looked at her. “Musk perfume?” repeated Miriam. “Why are you asking about that?”
“I overheard someone today talking about it, and thought it sounded different. I would love to try some, but I don’t know where to buy it,” Emily said, thinking quickly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to wear musk,” Jane said.
“It is not a scent that a well-bred woman would wear,” their mother said firmly. “Musk is one of the exotic scents, appropriate only for actresses and opera dancers. I forbid you to even think about trying it, Emily.”
“Yes, mother,” said Emily, returning to her embroidery, her mind racing with this information. What now? Perhaps Bertie would know how to get in touch with Mr. Granville, and then she could impart the full extent of her researches.
Granville was waiting to see Robert Benton. Beside him, Trent was kicking one foot against the heavy oak chair he sat in. Granville glanced at the tall clock standing in the corner. They’d been there nearly half an hour and it seemed much longer.
The place was nearly deserted, the ticking of the clock echoing in the silence. Benton kept late hours. It was a good thing they’d had dinner first; at least his stomach no longer felt hollow, though he’d give anything for a shot of whiskey.
Granville’s mind slid to his conversation that morning with Frances and the revelation about the existence of another sister, Lizzie. What could have happened to Lizzie that Frances spoke of her as if she were dead? Before he could follow the thought any further, the opening of the door at the far end of the room signaled Benton’s presence. Granville stood up, Trent following his lead.
“Granville,” Robert Benton said. “Here’s a pleasant surprise. How’s your partner?”
“Still in jail.”
“I do know that. In good spirits, though?”
“Considering he’s being held for murder, yes, I would say he is holding his own.”
“You still haven’t figured a way around that one-armed jailer?”
“I prefer to look for a solution that will allow Scott to stay in town.”
“Too bad. You’re just making things harder for yourself. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Trent. My assistant.” From the corner of his eye, Granville could see the proud smile that spread across the kid’s face.
“Hello, Trent. And what can I do for the two of you?” Benton asked.
“It may be what I can do for you,” Granville bluffed. “You see, to date I’ve learned two things about you. The first is that you knew a great deal about Jackson. The second is that you don’t want Frances involved in this case in any way.”
Benton rocked forward so that his weight was balanced on his toes, like a prizefighter facing a worthy opponent. “So?”
“So Trent and I would both like to keep her name out of this. Right, Trent?”
Trent nodded vehemently. “Right. Miss Frances isn’t involved in this. She can’t be.”
Benton shot him a look, then returned his attention to Granville. “I’m not saying Frances is involved, but what is it you want in return?”
“All I need is information that will spring Scott.”
Benton looked at them both for a long moment, then turned and walked back through the door. “Come into my office,” he said over his shoulder.
They followed him, Trent even more curious than Granville.
Benton, already seated behind his desk, waved them to two leather club chairs. “Whiskey? Cigars?”
Granville shook his head to both offers. He still didn’t trust Benton enough to accept his hospitality.
“Too bad.” Benton lit a fat cigar and inhaled deeply. “These are the good ones.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke and inhaled again, watching them as he did so. “What d’you want to know?”
“What do you know about any dealings between Scott and Gipson?”
“Between Scott and Gipson? Not much. Just that the latter is much less trustworthy than the former.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s crooked.”
“Isn’t that a bit meaningless, coming from you?”
Benton met Granville’s eyes. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“No.”
“Most men are,” Benton said, drawing again on his cigar. “Of what I represent, and the men I can call on, if not of me personally.” He paused. “But not you.”
“No.”
“Hmmm.” Benton nodd
ed. “I operate outside the law, but Gipson is crooked. There’s a difference. None of his dealings are straight. His word is worth nothing.”
“Unlike yours.” It was not a question.
Benton blew out a cloud of smoke and considered Granville through it. “I like you,” he said slowly. “Even if you are threatening my Frances.”
“Not threatening her. Keeping her name out of this.”
“Ah. I see.”
A silence fell between them. Trent shifted in his chair, but said nothing. Finally Benton broke it. “Gipson and Scott clearly knew each other, and there was no love lost between them. They mostly avoided each other, though Gipson hired Scott for a brief period, mostly to humiliate him, I’d guess.”
Benton was an astute observer, Granville thought. “Why would you consider a partnership with Gipson, if you think so poorly of him?”
“A partnership? I’d never consider it. Gipson is greedy and has no principles. That makes him a danger to everyone around him.”
“Now I had heard Gipson wanted a share of some of the businesses you run.”
Benton laughed. “He might’ve wanted a share. He wasn’t going to get one.”
Granville nodded. “Yet according to Trent here, Jackson and Blayney did a fair bit of business together, and Blayney was Gipson’s man.”
A vein began to throb in Benton’s forehead. “What business?” he demanded, glaring at Trent.
To Trent’s credit, he met that gaze straight on. “He had me run errands for Mr. Blayney,” he said. “I delivered packages for him, mostly.”
“What kind of packages?”
Trent shrugged; he’d been through this before. “I don’t know. Small ones, mostly, letters and things.”
“Where did you deliver these packages?”
“To the warehouse. Taverns, houses, other places.”
“Who paid you for this work?”
Granville was impressed by Benton’s acumen. He didn’t waste any time asking exactly whom Trent had been working for, but went straight to the question that would give him the clearest answer.
“Mr. Jackson did. Sir.”
“All the times you made those deliveries?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s a good thing Jackson’s dead,” Benton muttered to himself. “Saves me the trouble of killing him, though I’d like to know what he was up to.”
“Blayney’s dead, too,” Granville pointed out.
Benton shot him a considering look. “So he is,” he said slowly. “I wonder what the two of them knew about Gipson.”
“You think Gipson wanted the two of them dead?”
“Someone did.”
“True enough. And you think Gipson could have pulled off the two deaths?”
“I think he’s capable of it. Don’t you?”
“More than capable,” Granville said. “Except that he has been trying to get rid of me for the last three days, and has not yet succeeded.”
Benton slowly raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re just harder to kill,” he said.
Granville grinned. “That is possible. Or perhaps Gipson just can’t find good help.”
“Also a possibility.”
Trent was sitting on the edge of his chair, looking from one to the other, his expression confused. Granville extended the grin to include him, and Trent sat back, looked marginally more comfortable. He’d have to explain the dynamics of negotiating information to Trent later, Granville thought. “One thing: I heard a rumor that the person who shot Jackson was a woman, a dark-haired woman.”
“And you believe it?”
“No, I don’t believe it, but I don’t disbelieve it, either. I am operating from the premise that anything is possible, except that Scott killed Jackson. The question in my mind is do you believe it?”
Benton’s pleasant expression vanished. He remained silent, watching Granville carefully.
“Now, we don’t want to think that might have been Frances,” Granville said.
“Of course not.”
“If, on the other hand, Gipson had a hand in Jackson’s death, then I need knowledge of him and his dealings,” Granville said. “Oh, and I have already talked to the ladies at Twenty-one Dupont.”
“I see. Efficient of you.”
Granville grinned. “I try.”
“And if it were a woman who shot Jackson, do you have any idea who this woman might be?”
“Other than Frances?” Granville said, baiting the hook.
Benton gave him a dry little smile. “Other than Frances, of course.”
“Of course.” Granville paused, then gave his most open smile. “I have no idea,” he said, and sat back, crossing his arms. Let Benton make of that what he would; he didn’t have to know it was the truth.
S E V E N T E E N
Tuesday, December 12, 1899
Emily sat in the parlor, half hidden by a small forest of palms in brightly polished brass pots. She was fuming. She’d come here to wait for Bertie to return from whatever errand Cook had sent him on, but her father’s untimely entrance had ruined her plans. He’d been so furious to find her reading his newspaper that he’d snatched it from her hands, telling her to sit there until he decided what her punishment would be.
Not ten minutes later, Bertie had gone by the window, a brimming basket in hand, and ten minutes after that, he’d gone by in the other direction, carrying an empty basket. Cook had obviously sent him on another errand, and it would be hours before she got a chance to talk to him, assuming that she was ever released from the parlor, that is. She’d briefly considered rapping on the window and motioning for Bertie to come and speak to her, but she hadn’t quite dared.
There had to be another way to find out how Mr. Granville was progressing in solving his two mysteries, there had to be. Emily bit the tip of one fingernail, then realized what she was doing and folded her hands in her lap. Her mother would sigh and give her one of those looks if she saw her biting her nails, the look that said, “How can any daughter of mine behave in so unladylike a fashion?” Emily glared at the window.
There were just too many restrictions if you happened to be a girl. Why couldn’t she just walk out that door, find Mr. Granville, then sit down and discuss Bertie’s case with him? If she were a man, no one would pay any attention, but because she was a girl, it would cause a scandal she’d never live down. For a long, satisfying moment, Emily contemplated doing it anyway. She could almost taste the freedom that would ensue.
The door opened, and Emily started, feeling as guilty as if she’d actually done what she’d been thinking about, and she was sure her face must reflect that guilt. Ninny, she berated herself, trying to will her expression blank, knowing she’d fail.
“I see you’ve had time to reflect on your behavior and regret what you’ve done, hmm?” her father said.
It took Emily a moment to realize that he thought she was feeling guilty about reading the paper. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her laughter from bursting out. If only he knew what she’d really been thinking. “Yes, Papa,” she said.
“And you won’t make that mistake again, will you, daughter?”
I won’t get caught again. “No, Papa.”
He nodded, a satisfied look on his face. Poor Papa. What had he done to be given a daughter like her?, Emily wondered. She didn’t fit into the neat boxes he’d laid out for each of them, and one day she would probably do something that would send him into an apoplexy. But his old-fashioned ideas were so restrictive, she felt as if she were strangling.
“There’s a good girl,” her father continued, oblivious. “And what are you planning today?”
“I’ve plans to meet Clara,” she said, suddenly thinking of a way to contact Mr. Granville. “We’re going shopping.”
“Good,” he said, patting her head and nodding. “That’s good. Can’t get into much trouble shopping, now can you?”
Oh, Papa, if you only knew, Emily thought, giving him a kiss on his whiskere
d cheek. “I’ll see you tonight, Papa,” she said and fled the room before he could change his mind.
“So, you see, Clara, I must get in touch with Mr. Granville.” Emily gripped the telephone more tightly. Using it was still a novelty to her, and anyway, few of her friend’s homes had telephones yet. Clara was the exception.
“Yes, I see, but why not send him a letter? And why must we meet him at Stroh’s? No one goes there.”
“Exactly. There will be no one to ask unnecessary questions. Or to carry tales.”
“But do you think he knows where it is?”
“I’ll put directions in my note, or Bertie can tell him. I’m sure he can find it.”
“But why there?” Clara persisted. “Why not arrange to meet him in a bookstore or something?”
“Stroh’s makes excellent pastries, probably the best in town,” Emily said, knowing her friend’s fondness for cream puffs and éclairs.
“Oh, all right.” Clara paused, and her voice went softer. “Emily, I think meeting Mr. Granville is frightfully thrilling, but what if you are found out?”
Emily sighed. Clara was usually very loyal, which was why she’d not hesitated to involve her in the afternoon’s plan, aside from the fact they were best friends, of course. Susan would never have agreed to meet Mr. Granville. “There will be nothing to find out. This isn’t a romance. Rather, I am assisting him in his endeavors, and it’s perfectly respectable as long as you are with me. You will do this, won’t you?”
“I suppose so. If you are absolutely sure.”
“Wonderful. I’ll see you then.” If Clara had been there, Emily would have reached over and given her friend a hug. That was the problem with using a telephone; the person you were talking to was so far away, she thought as she replaced the handset.
“Miss Turner? I got your note. What is so urgent?”
Emily looked up at Mr. Granville, pleased at the success of her scheme. He appeared tired, she thought, but despite the fatigue in his eyes, he exuded an air of strength and determination. He seemed far too masculine for Stroh’s.
“Please, Mr. Granville, join us. Clara, this is Mr. Granville. And this is my friend, Miss Clara Miles. Sit down, and I’ll tell you everything.” Emily couldn’t help beaming.
